


The Snakes

by flameon



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: AU kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flameon/pseuds/flameon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Childhood Friends. "This is for the snakes, and the people they bite"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snakes

**Author's Note:**

> I got the inspiration for this entire thing from The Front Bottom's 'Twin Size Mattress'. If you have the means, check it out, possibly while reading - there will be a disturbing similarity between the lyrics and the events in this one shot.

 The water is cold and it washes away the last traces of tiredness from Takeshi’s eyes. When his head breaks the surface, he hears an excited whoop and a splash from Hayato hitting the lake. A smile breaks out on his face even though the wave washes water up his nose and in his mouth. Hayato’s hair is clinging to his face and it looks like some kind of white seaweed attached itself to him. Takeshi can barely see the other boy in the dim moonlight but he does pick up to motion of a raised hand, ready to splash, before he receives another face full of lake water.

 

“You’re _dead_ ,” he yells, charging after a cackling Hayato.

 

The silver head bobs under the surface and disappears before Takeshi feels tugging on his feet, and even though he knows it’s his friend, his heart skips a beat. He kicks out automatically and feels his foot connect with something. He freezes, feeling Hayato release him all at once. Turning in the water to find his friend, Takeshi begins to panic. He can’t see Hayato anywhere and his throat seizes up, remembering stories about drunken teens swimming at night who ended up paralyzed or dead because they weren’t –

 

“What are you all worked up over?” Comes a voice from behind him. Takeshi nearly has a heart attack and turns with such franticness he nearly slaps Hayato in the face, “Dude calm down, Jesus.”

 

“What the _fuck_! I thought I killed you!”

 

“With that kick? You couldn’t kill an ant with that weak ass-” Hayato is interrupted when Takeshi rolls his eyes and splashes him in the face to shut him up.

 

“Forget I ever worried,” Takeshi says, but the relief in his voice is hard to hide.

 

Hayato splutters and curses, but turns around and begins to swim further out into the lake, calling behind him, “Oi, come and have a look at this shit I found earlier. It’s fucked up.”

 

Takeshi takes a deep breath, his heart still hammering in his chest. He should be used to his friend’s behavior by now, he tells himself, but sometimes he still thinks he’s going to wake up to grey hairs any day now. Resigning himself to a life of worry, Takeshi begins to swim after Hayato, ignoring the feeling of the slimy grass under his feet and the polluted taste of the water.

 

* * *

Hayato’s sister doesn’t like Takeshi. He knows this because whenever he sees her outside their school she looks at him like he’s a mosquito buzzing around her ear. Takeshi avoids making eye contact with her. Bianchi is glaring at Takeshi through the light rain when they walk through the front gates. Hayato is walking next to him, cursing at the dripping cigarette that refuses to light when she begins her approach. There are frown lines adorning her face that Takeshi is sure are all but carved into her skin by now.

 

“Hayato, hurry up,” she calls with a blank expression.

 

“I’m fucking coming, alright?” He spits back, “Jesus. I’ll see you tomorrow, Takeshi.”

 

“Yeah,” Takeshi waves, “tomorrow then.”

 

As they leave Takeshi catches words thrown out that reflect Hayato’s rocky family life. He knows that Hayato’s father is a notable man of high standing in the Japanese government but he’s never met him before and from what Hayato has told him, Takeshi’s not sure he wants to. Hayato’s mother is never mentioned and Takeshi is afraid he’s left it too long to ask.

 

Takeshi can feel the rain soaking through to his bone when Bianchi’s voice rises but he doesn’t turn around. Hayato’s replies are riddled with more curses but their words are muddled by his splashing footsteps. 

 

Hayato’s face whenever his father is mentioned turns sour. It’s a topic that he likes to rant about after their first six-pack. Between his fourth and fifth cigarette, Hayato is normally calm enough to explain his father’s latest trespass on what Hayato describes as ‘his mental equilibrium’ – which Takeshi guesses translates to Hayato’s mood. He explains that Mr. Gokudera resents him for not following in his footsteps and that he belittles his achievements in front of his whole family. Takeshi isn’t sure how many people that constitutes since the only people he has ever encountered, either in person or via conversation, is Bianchi and his elusive father.

 

The Gokudera’s are rich – Takeshi knows that much. Hayato refuses to acknowledge his father’s money by wearing the same pair of ripped jeans every day and scrounging for change to buy another pack of smokes. Takeshi isn’t sure why Hayato hates using his money so much since, in his opinion, it would make more sense to take Mr. Gokudera for all he’s worth but Hayato is adamant and Takeshi would never ask for any kind of hand out. Not that Takeshi’s old man struggles for money but there are bills that Takeshi sometimes notices are paid a little late.

 

The rain begins to fall harder and Takeshi picks up his pace. His books will be soaked already but he doesn’t want his phone to be ruined. He sees Bianchi’s car drive past him and he watches the rear lights fade through the wall of rain. Takeshi is struck with a miserable feeling of loss.

 

* * *

 

“How long do you think it would take to swim to Italy?” Hayato asks one night. He has a can of beer in his hand and he is staring at the street below them.

 

“Italy? No clue,” Takeshi replies, leaning back against the railing that Hayato is perched on.

 

They are on the roof of Takesushi – Mr. Yamamoto’s sushi restaurant. It’s their regular meeting area since Tsuyoshi refuses to let Hayato’s cigarettes anywhere near Takeshi’s room. He would blow a gasket if he found out that Takeshi has tried a couple of Hayato’s smokes but since the taste makes his toes curl and the smoke makes him queasy, the habit hasn’t stuck.

 

“Why Italy?” Takeshi asks after a small silence.

 

“I don’t know. I thought it was a popular holiday destination,” Hayato shrugged.

 

“Since when do you care what’s popular?” Takeshi jokes. Grinning, he turns his head up to look at Hayato’s surprisingly grim expression.

 

“I just thought it would be nice,” he mumbles.

 

“Well if you’re looking for a holiday you could always fly,” Takeshi replies, “you know, in a plane?”

 

“Whatever,” Hayato says in a quiet voice, “I like swimming.”

 

There is a pause in the conversation and Takeshi feels an undercurrent of sadness in Hayato’s voice. There’s a sense of electricity in the air and Takeshi hears buzzing behind his thoughts. The smell of Hayato’s smoke reaches Takeshi through the stale air and surrounds around him like a second skin. It feels familiar – the clinging scent of tobacco to his clothes and a friendship that feels as though it could splinter at any moment. There is a lump in his throat that threatens confused tears but he swallows hard and looks up at Hayato.

 

“Why do you want to go Italy, Hayato?” He asked deliberately.

 

“I don’t,” he answers after a second of contemplation, “but I still am. Apparently.”

 

Hayato looks down at Takeshi’s confused expression and answers the unasked question, “Dad.”

 

Takeshi groans in frustration, “That’s bullshit _.”_

“Can’t fight city hall,” Hayato says with a twisted grin, “Or the mob. Same thing I guess.”

 

“Why now? For fucks sake,” Takeshi exclaims, “He hasn’t wanted a thing to do with you up until now – what’s changed?”

 

“He says that he wants to spend quality time with me. He wants us to ‘reconnect’,” Hayato is practically growling by the end of the sentence.

 

“What would happen if you just – I don’t know - _didn’t_ go? Like, if you just didn’t get on the plane?” Takeshi asks.

 

Hayato is already shaking his head with a small smile on his face. This conversation has happened before and every time, Takeshi winds up more frustrated than before. He doesn’t understand the hold that Hayato’s father holds over his friend. What _would_ happen if Hayato simply didn’t answer, or didn’t return a call, or didn’t do what his father said?

 

“You don’t know him, Takeshi. He would make everything more complicated. He’s not the sort of person I can just cut out.”

 

“That’s utter bullshit. He’s not a father! It wouldn’t matter that everything’s complicated if you just cut ties with-”

 

“You don’t get it,” Hayato cuts him off, knowing exactly where Takeshi is going.

 

“You’re just afraid of what will happen if you do,” Takeshi mutters. He knows this is getting more intense that their usual conversations but he doesn’t care. He is angry but Hayato refuses to rise to the bait.

 

“Yeah,” Hayato admits, and then he stops looking at Takeshi to take another drag off his cigarette.

 

“So when do you leave then?”

 

“Who fucking knows?”

 

* * *

Three months after Hayato is packed onto a plane, Takeshi feels cravings for cigarette smoke and cheap deodorant. He plunges his head back under the water of the school’s indoor swimming pool and tries to concentrate on his stroke. The black line marking his lane burrs and hurts his eyes when he tries to focus it. The chlorine makes him choke with every accidental nose-full.

 

Takeshi prefers swimming in the lake at the back of Hayato’s ‘apartment’. They joke that Hayato bought the run down shack when his father left their home in Japan. In reality, the two boys stumbled across the dilapidated hunting cabin one night when searching for a place to stash their beer. Since then, they made sure they stashed a change of clothes, a six-pack and a carton of Castor’s in what came to be their home away from home.

 

Since Hayato’s departure, Takeshi has only tried to finish a cigarette four times. By the fifth, he decided he would just let it burn down to ash while he finished his drink. He’s decided that it’s not the same without Hayato’s cutting cynicism and rambling stories.

 

Takeshi feels his arm muscle twinge when he pulls too hard against the water. He realizes he’s been pushing himself more than usual and slows his pace to a comfortable crawl. His mind has been wandering from Japan to Italy and each day Takeshi finds himself spending more time than usual wondering how many miles lay between Namimori and Milan. It’s not that Hayato is the perfect friend but now there’s a significant gap in Takeshi’s life that used to be filled with friendly rivalry and sarcasm.

 

It hasn’t been long but even Takeshi’s father has noticed the subdued mood that has become the norm. Takeshi’s scores in baseball have fallen and his personal bests have remained unchanged for the longest time in six months. Strangely, his marks in classes have skyrocketed but he feels that might be linked to the fact that he stays indoors and completes his homework each night. He hasn’t visited Hayato’s apartment since the first week without his friend. The dank air inside seemed suffocating when he was alone. The moon didn’t seem so bright and the water of the lake looked menacing. Takeshi’s fear of the dark when he was younger didn’t seem to silly to him when he was sitting, tense and fearful of the corners around him, against the wall of the shack.

 

Even now, the night sky seems heavier and weighs down against his chest when he lies on his father’s roof. The air is stale when he breathes.

 

* * *

Takeshi is startled awake by the sound of his phone ringing at two in the morning. He groggily reaches for it and the light burns his eyes.

 

“Hello?” He asks, sleep evident in his voice.

 

“Hey,” Hayato answers, “Are you busy?”

 

It takes Takeshi a little while to process the question and the caller’s voice but eventually he replies, “No, just sleeping.”

 

“Good. Come outside I’ve got something to show you.”

 

There is a pause the length of a heartbeat, then Takeshi sits bolt upright.

 

“Outside? What? You’re here?”

 

“Yeah, but I fucking won’t be if you take much longer,” Hayato hisses.

 

“Aren’t you in Italy?”

 

“Clearly not. Can you hurry the fuck up or not?”

 

Takeshi hangs the phone up so that he can yank on a pair of trousers and a t-shirt before taking the stairs three at a time. He slams the door open and Hayato is standing in the light rain with a face radiating excitement, impatience and a hint of a smile.

 

Takeshi isn’t sure if he wants to hug him or punch him for not giving him any warning that Hayato was back in Japan.

 

“Let’s go,” Hayato says, not giving Takeshi any time to act on either impulse.

 

“Where?” Takeshi asked, jogging so that he can catch up to Hayato’s fervent pace.

 

“Where else do we go at midnight? Mine.”

 

The road soon turns to mud under Takeshi’s worn sneakers and he shivers at the bite in the air. The weather has turned stormy since they left and the moonlight is rapidly receding behind cloud cover. Hayato’s hair still gleams in the starlight, and there is something about the boy’s sudden appearance that unsettles Takeshi. He can’t decide if he’s more excited about being reunited or angry over the lack of communication. It’s not like Takeshi was expecting Hayato to call everyday when he was away, but three months with no word was creeping up on avoidance. Even if Hayato had been avoiding him, though, surely he wouldn’t run straight to Takeshi’s door when he returned.

 

“Hey remember that time we skipped class and you got so nervous you threw up?” Hayato asks suddenly.

 

“Yeah, you didn’t help much. You kept laughing at me.”

 

Hayato nods to himself but doesn’t say anything further. His pace increases and Takeshi feels a sense of trepidation. He is suddenly hesitant to take another step and his stomach twists into a knot. Hayato’s fingers are furled into tight fists at his sides. The air around Takeshi presses down. The moisture clings to his skin and chills him in the slight breeze. Under his feet, the debris of the forest crunches and crickets echo in his ears. Normally, Takeshi doesn’t mind the creepy trek from his house to old hunting cabin, but tonight, even with Hayato’s presence, the dark seems intimidating – almost alive.

 

Finally, Takeshi sees the outline of the roof and wooden logs. Hayato disappears inside the doorway after glancing back at Takeshi for the slightest moment. There’s a twisting sensation in his gut. Feeling the first drops of the coming thunderstorm, Takeshi follows suit. It’s surprisingly light inside – light enough for Takeshi to see that Hayato already has a cigarette lit and is staring intently into the corner of the room. Takeshi follows his gaze, his heart in his mouth.

 

There is a backpack lying on a wicker chair and there is a roll of bank notes peeking over the lip. From how full the bag is, Takeshi assumes there’s more than one. Next to it, there is a duffle bag stuffed full of solid white bricks tied with layer upon layer of packing tape – it looks like something straight out of the mobster movies. That thought quickly sobers Takeshi’s curiosity, knowing Hayato’s familial connections.

 

Of course there’s the black handgun that glints ominously in the dull lights. It seems to smile at Takeshi. He stares at it, eyes barely understanding what they’re seeing. There’s a sickly splatter of something that is certainly not meant to be there. It’s as though someone threw paint right at the barrel but the knife of repulsion twisting in his gut knows that it isn’t paint.

 

“What…” Takeshi swallows hard, “What the fuck? Is this?”

 

Hayato doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses the room to the door and disappears. Takeshi ignores his exit and instead, he investigates the backpack and duffle bag. At first he doesn’t want to touch it – in the cop shows on T.V they always catch the murde- _suspect_ by finding his fingerprints and tracking him down through DNA. Then he reminds himself that this cabin is crawling with hairs, or fingerprints or whatever it is that he leaves behind every visit. With that knowledge, he digs in, finding at least fifteen rolls of cash and a strange assortment of objects at the bottom.

 

There’s a packet of Castor’s, of course, a cheap lighter, some plastic rubbish, Hayato’s wallet, a pay-as-you-go phone and a crumbled piece of paper that Takeshi opens hesitantly. On it, in Hayato’s scrawled handwriting is an accumulation of words that make very little sense. There are names, locations and phone numbers crisscrossing the page with seemingly no pattern at all. It’s not until Takeshi notices a couple of names have been crossed out that he puts two and two together and takes a sudden step back from the gun next to him.

 

Of course it’s the name at the bottom of the paper that ends with ‘Gokudera’ that makes him charge after his stupid, _stupid_ friend.

 

Hayato is sitting on the edge of the lake, for once not accompanied by a cigarette. He does have a glassy expression covering his face. He doesn’t even move when Takeshi slides to a halt in the deep mud. His hair is plastered to his face with rain and his lip is almost bitten clean through.

 

“You’re going to kill your father?”

 

Hayato looks at Takeshi with a slight flicker of fear, “If everything goes as planned,” he answers.

 

“Why do you need a duffle bag full of cocaine to do that?” Takeshi is both surprised and worried at the calmness in his voice when Hayato completely ignores the ridiculousness of this conversation.

 

“It’s nitroglycerin in the duffle. The cocaine’s in another one, halfway to the bottom of this lake.”

 

Takeshi feels his heart leap into his throat.

 

“What the fuck, Hayato.”

 

Hayato looks back out over the lake, “It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?”

 

“Maybe for, like, therapy or something! Not murder! Patricide? I don’t know, not this!”

 

Hayato stands up and ignores the mud clinging to him. He doesn’t say a word but when he tries to pass Takeshi, he is stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Takeshi puts a little too much effort into it and Hayato stumbles back a few steps. Suddenly there is rage simmering under his gaze and Takeshi uncertainly leans away.

 

“Look, it’s not too late to dump all of this. Just throw it in there with the rest of it,” Takeshi motions to the lake.

 

“Let it go, Takeshi. I’m moving on, alright?”

 

Takeshi doesn’t believe him for a second. He recognizes the way Hayato’s shoulders are shaking from not just the water soaking his shirt.

 

“No way. You can’t go. They’ll track you down and kill you. This is the actual _mob_ Hayato. The _mafia_. I heard they don’t fuck arou-”

 

“I fucking _know,_ okay?” I know! Why do you think I had to come home after three lousy months? I had planned on finishing the job but they figured out it was me too soon. I barely got a handful of their stash before I had to run. This isn’t a fucking _game,_ Takeshi, I can’t just quit. I’m in it now. Until I finish or they find me and put a bullet in my skull, but I don’t _care_!”

 

Takeshi levels his gaze at Hayato, frustration and fear burning his eyes and pricking at the corners. He swallows hard.

 

“I’m still not letting you leave,” he promises, “If you’re not going to dump that rubbish then I will.”

 

Takeshi turns and barely makes it five steps before he is hit with such force that he sprawls into the mud and shallow water, Hayato clinging onto his waist the whole way down. Takeshi’s head hits the water and immediately, his nose fills and his eyes sting. He feels Hayato’s weight disappear from his middle and Takeshi lunges out of the water to grab his ankle as the boy darts towards the cabin. Hayato trips in Takeshi’s grip and crashes onto the ground with a grunt of pain. Takeshi struggles onto his feet, his shirt and pants dripping wet and the cold chilling him to the bone. Hayato kicks out at him when he gets within range and catches him in the knee. The ferocity behind it cripples him and he feels pain lance through the joint.

 

Hayato is scrambling along the ground trying to get a running start but Takeshi tackles him once again, ignoring the throbbing in his leg and Hayato curses before sending his elbow repeatedly into Takeshi’s unprotected cheek. He doesn’t let go, though. He’s not sure why he’s trying to stop Hayato so badly – it’s not like the other boy could outrun him out of the country – but there’s a feeling inside Takeshi’s chest that says something important is happening right now, in their run down hideout.

 

The boys grapple under the pelting rain that makes the skin of Hayato’s arm harder and harder to grasp. Takeshi is struck by the vivid memory of the times they would wrestle in a similar manor when they were ten and arguing over whose turn it was to choose the TV program they would watch. Or when Hayato passed out after his first binge and Takeshi had to drag him back to Takesushi and eventually collapsed on the staircase. Trying to heave Hayato up the steps had been nearly as painful as the knee in his gut that Hayato is ramming over and over again, but there weren’t angry tears streaming down his cheeks back then.

 

Hayato twists out of Takeshi’s grip one more time but stumbles back into the shallow water and Takeshi watches him fall. When the silver head disappears under the inky black surface, Takeshi waits for him to resurface but then he remembers Hayato’s tactic of staying under for far longer than any chain smoker would normally be able. Because of this, his heart doesn’t jump into his throat until a full minute has passed and there is not even a ripple to indicate his friend’s presence.

 

Takeshi storms in after him, half hoping-half expecting to hit Hayato with his shins the second he enters the lake. Instead, he is waist deep and frantically turning in the water to spot any sign of his friend when Hayato surfaces.

 

He’s lying flat on his back, hair splayed around his head like some demented halo. His eyes are open and his mouth is open, which Takeshi takes to mean he is not dead quite yet. Hayato breathes, floating peacefully on the surface as though they had just taken another drunken dip in the water. Takeshi is so frustrated, so confused he just watches him. He walks back up to the shore and sits down, right there in the mud – his jeans have long been ruined and he is so exhausted he wouldn’t care if they were brand new. The rains pelts Hayato’s face but clearly he doesn’t mind.

 

When Hayato finally wades back onto solid ground, Takeshi asks quietly, barely audible over the pounding rain, “If you didn’t want me to stop you, why did you come and get me?”

 

Hayato doesn’t look at him when he answers – he never does, “I don’t know. For old times’ sake?”

 

Takeshi accepts this with a nod.

 

“Is there anything I can do to stop you?”

 

Hayato is quiet for a moment then chuckles at some thought Takeshi is sure he won’t like.

 

“You could unload that clip right into my head. On behalf of my Dad.”

 

Takeshi definitely knew him too well.

 

And Hayato knew him.

 

“You can’t come with me either.”

 

Takeshi shrugs – he would like to see the boy try to stop him.

 

“I’m serious, Takeshi. You’ve got your dad to worry about. And your scholarship. And that girl in Science who always giggles when you look at her, whatever her name is.”

 

“You have people here too,” Takeshi objects, not wanting to admit the truth to himself that no, he would not survive a daring mission filled with guns, drugs and money. That his father needed him to help run the restaurant even though he would never admit it. That he would miss baseball too much to even contemplate. That his life is very much on this path and Hayato’s, while temporarily aligned, is only just beginning to become what is was always meant to be. It’s just his luck that Hayato was always the smarter one.

 

“I have you. Had.”

 

“Have,” Takeshi corrects him, “whenever.”

 

Hayato snorts at Takeshi’s annoyingly sympathetic expression but he doesn’t try to refute him. He does look at him with eyes that border on apologetic but Takeshi has never seen an expression close to regret on Hayato’s face. Even when his eyebrows were missing after fiddling with his lighter during a particularly boring lunch recess, Hayato wore his burns like such conviction that no one dared to assume it had been accidental.

 

He is quiet for a very long time and Takeshi doesn’t want to break the silence. Instead, he focuses on keeping down the tears that threaten to break out. He knows what’s coming.

 

“I’ll see you around, hey?” Hayato eventually says. It is brash, secretive and callous, as is Hayato’s personality but Takeshi knows that everything that needs to be said, has been.

 

“Make sure to call me. From whatever sleazy motel you end up at.”

 

“So sentimental.”

 

Hayato rises and walks back towards the cabin without so much as a backward glance. Takeshi stays put and stares very hard at the lake, trying to convince himself that the rain hasn’t stopped – that the streaks on his cheeks aren’t warm or salty. He knows that Hayato will survive this – he has to. Hayato’s never been able to stay down. Even with a broken collarbone and fractured jaw, he still rose to fight off the massive guy bearing down on Takeshi. It’s his most valuable and annoying trait. Even when Takeshi is begging him to just _stop_ fighting, Hayato insists on receiving every punch that life throws him. It’s infuriating. It’s admirable. It’s painful to see. It’s incredible to witness.

 

Just like the thug on the street corner, Takeshi knows that the names on that list aren’t going to know what hit them. And when Hayato returns, Takeshi is going to make sure he arrives into a home that he will never run from again.


End file.
